


Got A Bad Case of Loving You

by sadIittlenerdking



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Time Skips, everything that happened happened, implied quentin/alice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 00:30:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10888137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadIittlenerdking/pseuds/sadIittlenerdking
Summary: Based on the prompt: the doctor said you could recover your memories, and we were all hopeful- but you never did.The picture is clutched tight in his hands as he makes his way down the stairs, back to the living room of the cottage. It has to be a manipulation, or a spell, but he checked it. There’s no spell on it. There’s no evidence of any kind of tampering. He’s just spent fifteen minutes raking over every inch of the damn thing, and nothing came back positive - other than the picture being genuine. It doesn’t make sense. As he steps off the last stair, Alice and Margo turn to grin at him, stopping short at the look on his face.Margo slowly stands up, “Q?” She asks, “Are you okay?”Eliot turns around, then, as well, eyes tracing Quentin as he looks him over. His eyes stutter to a stop as he sees what’s in Quentin’s hand and he stumbles to his feet as well, turning around. The drink in his hand nearly spills as he tries to set it down. The cigarette on his lips vanishes, spelled off to wherever garbage goes, and his mouth falls open. He knows exactly what it is before Quentin has to say anything. His mouth works open and closed like he’s trying to figure out what to say.





	Got A Bad Case of Loving You

The picture is clutched tight in his hands as he makes his way down the stairs, back to the living room of the cottage. It has to be a manipulation, or a spell, but he checked it. There’s no spell on it. There’s no evidence of any kind of tampering. He’s just spent fifteen minutes raking over every inch of the damn thing, and nothing came back positive - other than the picture being genuine. It doesn’t make sense. As he steps off the last stair, Alice and Margo turn to grin at him, stopping short at the look on his face.

Margo slowly stands up, “Q?” She asks, “Are you okay?”

Eliot turns around, then, as well, eyes tracing Quentin as he looks him over. His eyes stutter to a stop as he sees what’s in Quentin’s hand and he stumbles to his feet as well, turning around. The drink in his hand nearly spills as he tries to set it down. The cigarette on his lips vanishes, spelled off to wherever garbage goes, and his mouth falls open. He knows exactly what it is before Quentin has to say anything. His mouth works open and closed like he’s trying to figure out what to say.

Alice frowns, carefully getting to her feet as she and Margo approach Quentin. “Quentin?” She says, soft and careful like she’s trying to tame a wild beast. “What’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He sets his jaw and holds the photo out for them, locking his eyes on Eliot. He doesn’t say anything until Margo takes it from his hand, and gasps, turning her head to look back at Eliot as well. Alice inhales, eyes darting up to Quentin’s face as she takes the photo from Margo.

Eliot’s hand stays on the edge of the couch where he stands, fingertips pressed into the fabric, as he stares back at them. “Q -,”

“What the fuck is this?” Quentin interrupts. “I - I checked to see if it was spelled. But it wasn’t. So, clearly, there’s something someone isn’t telling me!” He takes a deep breath, stepping around and Alice and Margo to approach Eliot. “What the fuck aren’t you telling me? You told me there were no more secrets. That I knew everything.”

Eliot swallows, gazing falling to the floor between them. He licks his lips, squeezing his eyes shut. “We thought it’d be best,” He whispers, voice soft and low,  a reckless breath.

“Thought what would be best?”

A hand comes up to Quentin’s shoulder, and he rips away, turning around to face Margo, who’s watching him with eyes too kind to actually be hers. But the pity beneath the kindness leaves no room for doubt, as he takes a quick, angry step backwards, nearly crashing into Eliot. “You should sit down,” She says, nodding towards the couch.

“I should sit down? Are you kidding me -,”

Alice sighs, “Quentin. Sit down. We can explain.”

He takes a steadying breath and moves around Eliot to sit down. He glares up at them as they all come around, as well, standing in front of him, varying poses of guilt. Eliot’s eyes dance around the room, looking everywhere but at Quentin, so unlike him, and so frustrating. Alice stares at Quentin, eyes narrowing as if she’s making some internal dialogue up in her head about how to go about this conversation. And Margo crosses her arms across her chest as she takes a deep breath and levels him with a stare.

“We lied to you,” She says, pursing her lips as Eliot turns to look at her, confusion clear as day on his face. “After the spell, when you woke up in the clinic. You had your old memories. We thought it’d be best to play that shit out until you remembered, so you didn’t go into shock or something stupid like that.”

“The doctor said you could recover your memories,” Alice adds, “And we were all hopeful. But you never did.”

Eliot sits down on the edge of the coffee table, looks down at the ground in front of him. His eyes glance up at the liquor shelf, like he’s debating whether or not to pour himself a drink, but he looks back down, hands coming to his sides and grabbing at the edges of the table so tight his knuckles turn white.

“That was six months ago,” Quentin says. Alice and Margo nod.

“For what it’s worth, it wasn’t his idea,” Alice murmurs, glancing down at Eliot. “He was against it. But the rest of us, we all agreed. You …” She trails off, biting down on her lower lip and looking at Margo.

Margo’s arms drop to her sides, and she glares at Alice. “Really? You can’t be assed to say the important part?” She rolls her eyes, turning her gaze back on Quentin. “You know you lost a year of memories. We didn’t think you could handle knowing a lot of the shit that went down in that time. It wasn’t all good, and this in particular was probably the only good thing of them all, but it was so wound up in all the shitty stuff, we figured it’d be best if you just ease yourself into your memories. Like the doctor said you would. But you didn’t. And we kept playing along, hoping you would.”

He swallows, eyes darting to the photo in Alice’s hand. “What exactly don’t I know?” He asks, soft, voice trembling.

“I mean, clearly -,”

“Margo,” Eliot chokes, raising a shaking hand between them. She stops talking, and looks down at him, placing a hand on his shoulder as he looks up at Quentin. “You’re happy, Q. Just … forget about this, and move on. _It’s not important_.”

Alice’s eyes go wide as she turns her head to say something to him.

“Happy?” Quentin interrupts, a short, ironic laugh on his breath as he shakes his head and adjusts on the couch, “I’m not fucking happy.” He looks up at Alice, “And neither is she.”

“I -,”

“I’m not stupid, Alice.” He shakes his head, turning his gaze on his lap, wringing his hands. “I - I knew something was wrong. But you were there for me through everything. And you haven’t tried to break up with me. But something’s been wrong. And we’re not _happy_. Not in the traditional sense, at least.” He looks back up, “Just tell me the truth. Please.” His gaze falls down to Eliot, “Please.”

Eliot’s chin trembles, as he looks back down at the floor. “You don’t -,”

“We’re kissing in that fucking photo, Eliot. I think have a pretty fucking clear idea!” Quentin exclaims, shaking his head as he shoves up from the couch and moves past them. “I’m not an idiot. Just tell me!”

When Eliot doesn’t respond, Margo sighs, letting go of his shoulder and stepping closer to Quentin. “You really wanna know?” She asks. He nods and she makes a face before nodding as well. “Okay. Hold out your hands.” Hesitantly, he reaches out between them, palms up, and she grasps them, tight. “I got Sunderland to teach me this after we realized you weren’t going to remember on your own.”

“Teach you …?”

She shrugs, closing her eyes, and exhaling slow. “I can’t give you your memories. But I can share mine. Eliot could do it, too, but,” She peaks one eye open, glaring at Eliot, “Since he’s being a little bitch. You get an outsiders view of everything.”

“Bambi -,”

“Shut up, El. He wants the truth, he gets the truth.”

Alice adds, “This is what you wanted, anyways. I don’t get why you’re so upset.”

“He shouldn’t have to remember like this!” Eliot exclaims, pushing up from the table and glaring at them all. “He shouldn’t have to be _told_ how he felt. He -,” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair halfhazardly, “I - I’m going to my room. You do whatever the fuck you want, I’m not going to be a part of this.” And then he storms off, without even a second glance back at Quentin.

Of course he wants to remember on his own. But all he has are new memories and old, and nothing in between. Nothing that clears up that blank spot in his mind. He’s known for months that something was different about his relationship with Alice, but he couldn’t figure out why. As far as he’s concerned, nothing could have happened to change them. As far as he’s concerned, he’s supposed to be madly in love with her. Eliot’s supposed to be his best friend - a role he plays well - and Margo supposed to be his best friends best friend. Penny is supposed to hate him. Julia is supposed to be gone. He doesn’t know anything other than what he’s supposed to know.

There’s more than what’s supposed to be, because there’s a whole year of what everything actually is. Why he doesn’t feel like he loves Alice. Why Eliot is still close, but seems to pull away when they get too close on the couch, or why his gaze falters when he looks at him. Why Penny’s around more often than he used to be, and his scowl holds less heat. Why Julia appears on the Brakebills campus in the distance every once in a while.

Margo sighs, squeezing Quentin’s hands. “You ready, Q?” He nods. She takes a deep, calm breath, mutters something in latin, and then the room is spinning, dancing around them like they’ve awoken a ball room with a life of its own. Colors whirls and disappear, mist and piece themselves back together until it’s Quentin and Eliot in Eliot’s room, brown hair framing his vision. He realizes he’s seeing himself through Margo’s eyes, and blinks.

He’s shirtless, and Eliot’s sitting on the bed. He crawls into his lap, dazed and confused, but the look on his face says something more. Eliot looks up at him, like he’s unsure of what to do. And then Quentin’s leaning into him, and Eliot’s hand comes up, grabs onto the back of his neck as their lips meet, open mouthed and desperate.

Then the scene morphs, and it’s the next day and everything’s tinged with pinks and reds and blacks, sadness overlapping something inside they can’t face, and they’re all fighting, and he and Alice break up. Because he cheated on her. But beneath the desperation to get her back, he still throws looks back at Eliot.

Then there’s grief.  All around them as they lose each other, disappearing, and reappearing and the world is fighting them, trying desperately to keep them apart. Lingering hugs, and stolen glances. Everything adjusts - he guesses this is when Margo loses her eye - and he see’s it all in halves. Then magic is gone, and its Quentin’s fault, but nobody blames him. Then they’re reunited. And he ignores everyone as he blasts past Margo and goes crashing into Eliot’s arms, and they stand there, holding each other, so much longer than anyone expected. Then he pulls away, and he’s leaning up, up, on the tips of his toes, as a hand tangles in Eliot’s hair to pull him down, and they’re kissing.

After that it’s a mirage of leaving Fillory, only for weeks at a time. When they leave, Alice and Margo stay, taking turns over ruling, and going home. Whenever they return, Margo’s vision goes pink and blue and yellow, happiness swelling. They take the throne, holding hands between them. It’s like this many times, until a new evil threatens them, somehow banishes them from Fillory again. And not even the button can get them back.

Quentin holds Eliot as he throws the button against a wall. He screams, cries, wails. The colors slow to an angry, desperate waltz around them as Margo moves closer, and pulls both of them into a hug.

Then it’s just him, and he’s talking to Margo because he has a plan. A spell to get them back, to save their people, to go home. And she agrees, and they get to work, planning and plotting, putting everything together so they can go back.

But it backfires, and the only one affected by the reversal of the magic is Quentin. And everyone swarms around them, the air growing tight and red, pulsing as Margo’s hands cradle his head. Eliot approaches, running down the stairs, blurry and somehow in slow motion. The sound around them is muted, like Margo’s fallen under water, and Eliot falls to the ground, pulls Quentin into his lap. He’s saying something, but Margo’s eyes are locked on Quentin’s body, and then something grabs her and turns her eyes on Eliot and he’s screaming for her to get the dean.  

He inhales quickly as the vision fades to him in the hospital bed, and rips his hands out of Margo’s, dizzy. His knees buckle, but Alice and Margo rush forward, help him onto the couch. They sit next to him as he collects himself.

“Are you okay, Quentin?” Alice asks after a few minutes.

He nods. Turns his gaze up to the ceiling. “Why was I so desperate to get us back?” He asks, soft.

Margo takes on his hand, laces her fingers through his. “Because,” She whispers, sighing, “Fillory is Eliot’s home. He’s happiest when he’s there. And … getting banished, again, fucked him up. And he started drinking heavily again, and doing drugs, and we were all losing him. You wanted the chance to take him home. And I didn’t want him to kill himself.”

“He blames himself,” Alice adds, “For what happened to you. He doesn’t think he deserves what you guys have together. It’s why he went along with the plan.”

“He thinks you not remembering like you should is a sign that he’s not meant to be happy. That you two were just biding time until something better came along. He didn’t want us to force you to remember because he’s afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“You choosing to ignore it.”

He shakes his head. “I -,” Pausing he licks at his lips, pulling his hand out of Margo’s and standing up. “I can’t ignore this.” He mutters, shaking his head again, “It’s been there. Every time I look at him and think I’m supposed to love Alice,” He glances at her apologetically, but she shrugs, “I feel it creep up. And I pushed it away because I thought - I don’t know. But he’s a fucking idiot. And so am I.”

Margo smirks, waving an arm towards the stairs. “Go get him, Tiger.”

Nodding, he grits his teeth, and rushes through the house, but not before stopping to grab the photo out of Alice’s hand. He races up the stairs and pushes open Eliot’s door without bothering to knock. He’s lying over the blankets on his bed, one arm covering his eyes, while another holds his flask over the side of the bed, lid flipped open. Quentin takes a deep breath, tries to remember how to breath, and takes slow, cautious steps into the room. Eliot lifts his arm head a bit, sighs, and his head falls back on the pillow, arm covering his eyes again. “Q,” he mumbles, “Just go.”

Quentin shakes his head, and moves across the room, around the side of the bed and climbs up. Eliot’s breath hitches, chest rising erratically, but he keeps his arm over his eyes. Quentin moves until he’s lying down next to him on his side, hands tucked under his head as he gazes across the blankets and pillows at Eliot’s profile. Eliot holds up the charade for a minute longer before sighing, moving his arm and turning his head to look at him.

“What?” He asks, monotone.

“Show me.”

Eliot looks taken aback for a moment before he sighs again, “Margo showed you,” he mutters as he moves to sit up and take a drink from the flask. Quentin reaches up with one hand, grabbing the flask. “Quentin -,”

“ _Show me._ ”

“There’s nothing else for you to see. Let go of the flask.”

He shakes his head, pulling the flask away and placing it behind his back. He stares up at Eliot defiantly. “Show me, El.”

“Why?”

“Do you think I’d be up here if I didn’t want to see it from your point of view?” He asks, adjusting so he can sit up as well, crossing his legs underneath him as Eliot pushes up until he’s sitting with his back up against the headboard. “You don’t get to decide whether or not I love you.”

“Neither do you,” Eliot hisses, “Because you don’t know anything!”

“Then stop being an asshole and show me.”

“Show you?” Eliot shakes his head, looking up towards the ceiling as he purses his lips, “If I show you you don’t learn how you fucking feel, Q. You learn how I feel. That’s all it’ll show you. How I feel.” His chin trembles, and he turns to look back at him again. “I can’t influence you like that. I can’t _show you_ ,” he spits the words like they’re venom, “because it’s not what you want to see. What you want, you can’t have. And neither can I. We just need to accept it and move on.”

Quentin shrugs. “I don’t want to.”

“That’s just too damn bad.”

He sighs, grabs Eliot’s hand and squeezes. “Please, El.” He murmurs, looking up at him through his eyelashes, “I know this is about more than you not wanting me to see how feel. If you can’t show me … just tell me the truth.”

Eliot scoffs. “What truth? The truth that you almost fucking died because you wanted to get me back to Fillory?” He asks, sneering as he rolls his head back to look at the ceiling again. “Or the truth that when you woke up and the first person you asked for was Alice, and that that fucking crushed me? Or the truth that I stood there fighting them on this decision for hours because I didn’t want to lose you - even though I already had?” His eyes flicker over to Quentin. “Or how about the truth that I blame myself for all of this?”

Quentin clenches his jaw, pulling Eliot’s hand into his lap and holding on with both of his, “We love each other.”

“You nearly killed yourself for me. _Because of me._ ”

“And you literally jumped in front of me and died.” Quentin argues, flashing back to the part of Margo’s memory that showed Eliot jumping in front of him to block a blast of battle magic. He’d been a golem at the time, but it changed nothing.

“There was no danger with what I did.” He mutters with a sardonic roll of his eyes.

Quentin scoffs, “Not according to Margo’s memory. You almost didn’t come back.”

“And you didn’t come back,” Eliot retorts. “Very different things.”

“I’m right here, Eliot,” Quentin whispers, lifting their hands and brushing his lips against Eliot’s knuckles. Eliot’s eyes flutter closed as his breathing quickens. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me. So, you can either show me, or you can sit there being a stubborn dick about it. I don’t care.” He flinched, head wobbling, “Okay, I care. But, I’m not going anywhere, either way.” A smile reluctantly tugs at the corners of Eliot’s lips, and he opens his eyes to look at him.

“Jesus, Q,” He says, “You’re more stubborn than Margo at an all inclusive orgy.”

Quentin furrows his brow. “ … Isn’t that something she’d enjoy?”

“Shut up, I’m trying not to cry.” He sighs, shaking his head and sitting up straight. “I’m going to show you,” He says after a moments hesitation, looking at Quentin, arching a brow, “But you can’t let this affect -,”

Quentin leans forward and brushes a kiss against the corner of his mouth, whispers against his lips, “My minds already maid up, Eliot.”

Eliots breath stutters between them as he nods, lips grazing against Quentin’s as he does so. He turns so he’s facing him full on, legs curling up at his side, shoulder holding up against the headboard. He closes his eyes and brings his other hand up to place it overtop Quentin’s. Taking a deep breath, he opens his eyes again, looks directly into Quentin’s. “I -,”

“Jesus, when did you get so good at stalling?”

Eliot shakes his head, flicking his nose against Quentin’s, and whispers the spell into the air between them. His hands grip Quentin’s tight, as the world rushes around them in a mystifying dance as everything forms around them like a dream, replaying every moment they shared. Everything from Eliot’s perspective - so different from Margo’s. More red and orange, and warning. The world doesn’t start to shine until they’re in the bed together, but the colors are muted and distant like he’s not completely there. And then everything misty and broken when they wake up.

Eliots life  is all running red, bloody and angry, emotions out of control, shoveled down into a hole that he refuses to dig up. And then Quentin gets hurt and the world flashes black and blue around him, and he can’t breathe. It’s all dark and angry and dense.

And then magic dies and it’s just emptiness.

There’s no color again until Quentin comes crashing through the dark and into Eliot’s arms, shining gold and radiating something that’s been missing. And then it’s purple and yellow when he pulls him down into a kiss. The world shines, and the shining only intensifies the further in they go. Until they’re banished again, sent back to Brakebills. And then the golden hues and purple fields of misty love are dancing in the background of angry red swirling around the room, bleeding down the walls.

And then Eliot’s running down the stairs, a scream echoing loud and boisterous through the house as he see’s Margo and Quentin on the floor. It’s slow motion for him, too, like it had been with Margo. Except everything’s crystal clear and zeroed in on Quentin’s body. Something vicious grabs at his heart, grips and holds on until it wrings all the love out, and the feeling stays until Quentin’s in the hospital bed opening his eyes. And for a moment, gold bursts through the room, dancing around them, but then Quentin asks for Alice and something softer hovers in the air, until it’s suffocating the gold, and Eliot’s arguing with the others.

And it stays, mixing and blurring together with the soft red that seeps through the skin of everything Eliot is.

Quentin opens his eyes with a desperate gasp, and pulls his hands out of Eliot’s. For a brief second, Eliot’s eyes flicker with hurt, but then Quentin’s pulling him in, wrapping his arms around him as tight as he can, burying his face in the crook of Eliot’s neck. Eliot’s arms come around, hesitant as he loops them behind Quentin’s back, resting his chin atop Quentin’s head. They stay like that for a few minutes, breathing each other in.

“I’m sorry,” Quentin whispers, muffled, into Eliot’s skin. “I’m sorry. I should have thought it through, I don’t -,”

“You said you wouldn’t let it affect how you feel,” Eliot says, pulling away, hands sliding up to hold onto Quentin’s shoulders. “You don’t get to be sorry. Because you don’t remember.”

He thinks about arguing, for a moment, before nodding, slow and hesitant. “Okay,” He says, squeezing Eliot’s waist, “Okay.” He takes  deep breath and looks into Eliot’s eyes. “So we start over.” Eliot’s brow furrows, and he tilts his head, but Quentin barrels on. “We start over, and we don’t let the past affect us.” He nods to himself, hands sliding up Eliot’s stomach and chest, until it’s resting overtop his collarbone. “I might still remember some day. But until then, we start over.”

Eliot nods after a moment, “Okay,” He murmurs, “We can do that.”

Quentin beams, leaning forward to lean his forehead against Eliot’s. “Starting now.” He breathes, “Yeah?”

Eliot makes a face, crinkling his nose as his eyes fall shut. “Yeah,” He says, opening them after a beat, “Who am I to say no to your stupid kicked puppy dog face?”

Quentin shrugs with a gentle shake of his head. “I mean. I’ve been told it’s irresistible.”

Laughing softly, Eliot rolls his eyes and adjusts them both, twisting and pulling until they’re both lying down on the bed. He rolls over, pushing his back against Quentin’s chest, and reaches back to grab at Quentin’s right hand to pull it back over his waist so he can lace the fingers of his left hand through Quentins. Quentin smiles into the crook of his neck, presses his lips to the bit of skin between Eliot’s hairline and the shell of his ear.

He could get used to this.


End file.
